


A Simple Deduction

by riventhorn



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, 名探偵ホームズ | Sherlock Hound
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Hound and his chemistry experiments, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Moriarty's plans fail as usual, at the seaside
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 19:09:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4576341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riventhorn/pseuds/riventhorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hound, Watson, and Mrs. Hudson might never say it, but actions speak louder than words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Quiet and Retiring Widowhood

**Author's Note:**

> Not much plot here, mostly fluffy vignettes and hurt/comfort because that's what I was craving after a rewatch of the series.

Jim had left Marie a small sum of money, but it wasn’t enough to live on. Besides, she needed something to _do_ , something to keep her busy so that she didn’t keep reliving the aeroplane crash over and over in her mind. It had been almost a year, and it was time to make herself move on. So when she saw the advertisement in the newspaper for a housekeeper, she decided to apply for the position. 

Marie knew that half of the boys at the airfield would have been happy to marry her once a decent mourning period had passed. But she couldn’t imagine wanting another husband, not after Jim. They had been so happy, so in love, and then he had been cruelly snatched away from her. 

The brick house on Baker Street seemed like the perfect spot to spend a quiet and retiring widowhood in honest employment, with its little flower garden and tall, tobacco-scented bachelor. Mr. Sherlock Hound had been a perfectly charming gentleman at their first meeting. He hadn’t pried into her affairs or asked how her husband had died, only inquired as to whether she could cook a decent black pudding and if the bedroom by the back stairs, papered in a pale lavender, would be to her satisfaction. 

What he _guessed_ about her was another matter, of course. Although she supposed she should say “deduced,” as entirely more proper for a private detective of Mr. Hound’s caliber. 

*

Her first morning at Baker Street she awoke to the smell of something burning. Hastily pulling on her dressing gown, she opened her door and found the hallway filled with a noxious green smoke. 

“Mr. Hound!” Coughing and holding her sleeve over her nose, she made her way to his bedroom. A knock elicited no reply and gathering her courage, she turned the doorknob. The room was dark, and no one had slept in the bed, for the blankets were still turned down just as she had left them the night before. 

The smoke had gotten thicker when she reemerged into the hallway. She started running, torn between dashing outside to call for help but afraid that Mr. Hound had succumbed to the fumes and was perhaps suffocating to death at this very moment. 

The study proved to be the source of the smoke, and she didn’t even bother knocking, just ran inside. “Mr. Hound!”

He blinked at her, surprised, a test tube in one hand and a beaker of liquid in the other. His clothes were rumpled, sleeves rolled above his elbows, and his pipe added its own puffs of smoke to the hazy air.

“Whatever are you doing?” she asked, picking up an old newspaper from the settee and fanning it to try and clear the air. 

He set down the beaker and test tube and scratched a notation on a piece of paper. “Oh, just an experiment into the qualities of magnesium. The air _has_ gotten a bit thick, hasn’t it?” Going over to the window, he lifted the sash and a cool breeze washed into the room. 

Marie was suddenly very aware that she was standing in her employer’s study in nothing but a dressing gown, feet and head bare. Mr. Hound seemed to come to the same realization, for his ears flattened a bit in embarrassment and he became very interested in a pile of books collecting dust on the mantel. 

“Breakfast will be ready shortly,” she managed in a faint voice and fled the scene. 

In the dining room a while later Mr. Hound yawned over his kippers and rustled through the morning news. Marie darted in now and then to refill the teapot and marmalade jar but held her breath every time she did so, not quite sure how to start a conversation after the way the morning had begun. _Did you sleep at all last night?_ and _How often do you conduct these chemical experiments?_ both seemed far too impertinent for one’s first full day in a new position. 

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson,” Mr. Hound said during one of her appearances. “It’s probably best if you don’t tidy up in the study. My notes and music, the books, not to mention the, er, volatile substances—it would be far too much trouble.”

“Of course,” she agreed, relieved to hear it. 

He disappeared behind the paper again, and she retreated to the kitchen. 

When she had finished the washing up, she tied on her hat and went out into the garden. Perhaps Mr. Hound would agree to plant something besides foxgloves and tulips. Some pink roses by the gate and a cluster of marigolds in the corner, for example.

She lost herself in the scent of moist earth and gardening plans, getting so far as an ornamental topiary before she came back to the present to find it was almost noon and Mr. Hound was smiling down at her, dressed in a deerstalker cap and long trench coat. 

“Oh,” she said, wondering how long he had been standing there.

“Would you mind helping me with the car?” he asked and held out his hand to help her to her feet. 

“Do you have a case?” she asked as they walked towards the garage. 

“Possibly,” he said around his pipe stem. 

“Will you be back in time for tea?”

“I should imagine not, given how much progress Lestrade is likely to have made.” They pulled open the garage doors. “That is, if it isn’t another false alarm.” 

He started the engine and climbed onto the seat, tipping his hat at her as he went past. She closed the door behind him and latched it, then watched as the car rattled down the street, catching glimpses of his hat in the gaps between carriages. 

He hadn’t returned by the time she went to bed, and the house was still empty in the morning. A fog had rolled in during the night and around nine it began to rain. She was doing some mending by the fire when she heard the door open, and she quickly went out onto the landing.

Mr. Hound was standing at the bottom of the stairs, dripping all over the carpet. 

“Why you’re soaked!” she exclaimed, hurrying down and helping him take off his coat. “I’ve got a fire on in the drawing room. You can dry off there.”

“Splendid,” he said, his drooping ears perking up a little. 

“Were you working on the case all night?” she asked as they entered the drawing room.

“Yes—it turned out to be much more interesting than I imagined. Someone stole two thousand pounds from an underground vault. I believe the criminal used quite an ingenious device to accomplish the theft.” He gravitated towards the table, bypassing the fire entirely, and began sketching a diagram on the blotter. 

“Let me just dry your fur—the ink will smudge,” she said, approaching him with a towel. “Not to mention the carpet.”

“Hmmmm?” He looked up, then down at his shoes, which had left a muddy trail from the hallway. “Oh, dear.” 

She wrapped the towel around his shoulders and gave his fur a good rub in between his ears. When she took the towel away, they found themselves almost nose to nose. They both blinked, and then his eyes crinkled, and her mouth twitched into a smile. 

“Would you be so kind as to fetch my slippers, Mrs. Hudson?” he asked. “Otherwise I shall track mud all through the house.”

She did so and while he was changing out of his wet shoes, she peered at the diagram he had been sketching. It appeared to be a strange cross between a motorcar and a steam shovel. “There must have been several levers connecting the shovels to the engine,” she said, pointing. 

Mr. Hound looked and then nodded. “Quite so.” He added them in, and then raised his eyebrows in her direction, asking a silent question.

“I’ve a bit of mechanical experience,” she admitted.

“I see.” He returned his attention to the drawing. “The criminal must have begun digging a tunnel several miles away. With enough force, the wall of the vault could have been punctured…hmmm….”

Clearly when Mr. Hound was on a case, such mundane considerations as sleep, breakfast, and dry clothes were forgotten. At least she’d managed to get him into the slippers.

*

For several weeks she continued to feel like a stranger in the house. Sometimes when she woke up she still expected to be in her bed in the little cottage she had lived at with Jim. Then the old ache would tighten her chest, and she would squeeze her eyes shut to keep back the tears. But slowly she began to feel more settled. She became used to the odd hours Mr. Hound kept, resigned herself to battling with the drafty flue in the drawing room chimney on a daily basis, and grew to expect the sounds of a violin emanating from Mr. Hound’s study on foggy afternoons. In October her aunt became ill, and Marie went to stay with her for a few days. She was surprised to find that she missed the smell of tobacco and the wistful notes of the violin and was glad to return to Baker Street. 

Mr. Hound met her at the train station. She waved to him from the platform, and he lifted an arm in reply, smiling.

*

After the chemistry experiments and Mr. Hound’s skill at holding a conversation while simultaneously smoking his pipe, she wouldn’t have thought anything else at Baker Street could surprise her. Indeed, Mr. Hound’s comment on his return from his latest trip—“So sorry I’m late for tea, Mrs. Hudson. We ran into some trouble with pirates, and the Navy escorted us to port.”—had not startled her in the least. But that evening she found him kneeling on the floor in the second bedroom packing up some of the books that he had stored there. When she inquired as to why he was doing so, he replied, “Oh, I’ve invited a chap I met on the boat to stay here for a while. He should be arriving in a few days.”

“A guest?” she stammered. Mr. Hound had seemed such a solitary creature. He never took tea with friends or went to concerts with anyone. The thought of him inviting a stranger to Baker Street—!

“Yes. You’ll be kind enough to air out the room, won’t you, and give it a thorough cleaning?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

“What is the gentleman’s name?”

“Doctor Watson.” He sat back on his heels, smiling. “He was very helpful with the pirates. And do you know, he also admired my car! Called it a work of art!”

Marie waited until she was out in the hallway before indulging in a fond smile. She thought that she would quite like this Doctor Watson.


	2. Doctor's Orders

It figured that the one time Moriarty wasn’t actually trying to hit Hound, his bullet would find its mark. 

They were running through an abandoned factory in pursuit of Moriarty and his henchmen, Hound a few steps ahead of Watson, Lestrade and Scotland Yard several yards further back. Moriarty pulled out his pistol and fired at a fraying rope holding up several crates, clearly hoping to sever the rope and send the crates down on their heads. The bullet missed the rope, but ricocheted off a metal pipe. A second later, Hound stumbled.

“Hound!” Watson ran to him. “Are you all right?”

They both stared at the dark stain spreading across the left shoulder of Hound’s coat. 

“How tedious,” Hound said and slumped against the wall before sliding to the floor, wincing in pain.

_Blood loss_ , Watson’s medical training said, as he tore at the buttons of Hound’s coat. _That’s the biggest danger right now. Must get the bleeding stopped._

But another part of him could only stare at the blood matting Hound’s fur and running down his arm, could only see the pain and shock in his friend’s eyes, and think _No_.

He shoved that part deep down inside. No time for such thoughts now. He barked out at Lestrade to get one of the police wagons to the door. They needed to get Hound to a hospital as soon as possible. 

“Hold on, old man,” he said, pressing his own jacket against the wound. 

Hound gave him a weak smile. “Just a scratch, isn’t it?”

“Quite so,” Watson replied gruffly. “Hound—Hound!” 

Hound’s eyes had slipped shut, and his head lolled forward, unconscious.

Watson put more pressure on the wound, feeling at Hound’s throat for his pulse. 

_No._

*

The hospital ward was bright and sterile. Hound was asleep now, his shoulder swathed in bandages. The doctor who had operated on him had assured Watson that they had done everything they could. If no infection set in, the arm should be saved.

“We brought this for when you wake up, Hound,” Watson said, setting Hound’s pipe on the table beside the bed. Mrs. Hudson laid a tobacco tin beside it. Then they both sat down on two of the hard wooden chairs by the bedside.

After a moment, Mrs. Hudson reached out and put her hand on Hound’s head, tracing the edge of his ear and sinking her fingers into his soft fur. Then she drew back with a little sob. “Oh, Watson!” 

“He’ll be all right. Don’t you worry, Mrs. Hudson. A little thing like a bullet would never keep Hound down for long!”

She nodded and wiped her eyes on her handkerchief. 

A nurse walked past, carrying a basin of water. A horse neighed outside in the street, and someone shouted, indistinct through the closed window. Hound lay still, the blanket rising and falling slightly with his breath. 

Watson took Mrs. Hudson’s hand in his own, holding it tightly as they waited.

*

Hound proved to be a terrible patient, of course, refusing to rest and insisting that he was well enough to go out on a case.

“As a doctor, it’s my duty to see that you stay put,” Watson said for the fifth time, glowering at Hound until he dropped back into his bed with a sigh and pouted at the ceiling. “You’re still weak from the fever, and your shoulder needs time to mend.”

“My dear Watson, I’ve never doubted your qualifications as a doctor. But I shall go mad if I’m to lay in this bed with nothing to do all day.”

They compromised, and Watson allowed Hound to shuffle into the study and lay on the sofa while he and Mrs. Hudson performed a chemistry experiment under Hound’s direction.

“I quite fancy this color we’ve created,” Mrs. Hudson said, holding a beaker to the light and examining the emerald-colored liquid inside.

Watson leaned closer and blinked at it, admiring the results. “Of course it’s beautiful! How could it be otherwise, with you making it? Nothing like the foul odors we’re usually treated to,” he added with a glare in Hound’s direction, still somewhat miffed with Hound’s blatant disregard for medical advice.

Polly visited them the following week, when Watson had allowed Hound to graduate to the dining room. She gave all three of them a hug—a very gentle one in Hound’s case—and told them all about the school she was studying at while they ate dinner. Then they played speculation, although Hound and Polly quickly left Watson and Mrs. Hudson in the dust when it came to holding the highest trumps. He shared an amused smile with Mrs. Hudson while Hound and Polly bent closely over their cards, brows furrowed in determination, Hound puffing rather vigorously on his pipe.

That Sunday, Hound received a letter delivered by a messenger to the front door. Inside the envelope was a newspaper clipping about a valuable black opal that had been bought at auction by a wealthy shipping magnate. There was also a note, which read:

_I could easily steal this jewel, Hound, but it would be very unsporting to take advantage of your weakness._

_Professor Moriarty_

“The nerve of him,” Watson growled. “Taunting you when it was his bullet in the first place….”

“I think, Watson,” Hound interrupted, “that this is Moriarty’s version of an apology.”

Watson snorted. Criminals!


	3. At the Seaside

Hound sniffed the breeze and strolled over to the edge of the pier, watching the bathers down in the water below. Two children dashed by holding cones of fluffy pink candy-floss. The doctor and Mrs. Hudson had gone for a ride in one of the electric trams, but they should be returning momentarily. 

He’d been the one to suggest going on a holiday to Blackpool. The sea air was always so invigorating. Watson had been enthusiastic, and Mrs. Hudson had been very pleased when he’d asked her to accompany them. 

“But you have to promise not to get involved in a case,” she had said to them. “Even if Professor Moriarty shows up and pinches the Big Wheel, you must leave it to the police. Otherwise it will hardly be a holiday.”

Hound had agreed, although he and Moriarty did seem to have a habit of showing up in the same place at the same time. But the Big Wheel was still revolving merrily—he shaded his eyes against the sun to look at it. Stealing it would be quite a feat. If he were to do it, first he would—

“I say, Hound, what a crowd there is today!” Watson said from behind him, and he turned to find the doctor and Mrs. Hudson making their way to his side. 

“The weather has turned quite lovely,” Mrs. Hudson observed. “Do you gentlemen fancy a swim?”

They agreed that this sounded like a good plan and went to change into their bathing costumes. Wading into the surf a while later, he steadied Mrs. Hudson as the waves washed against their legs. Watson floated by on his back, humming.

“I hope you brought something suitable for dancing this evening,” he said. “I’ve gotten tickets for the ballroom at the Winter Gardens.”

“How splendid! Although I’m quite out of practice.” 

He privately thought that it wouldn’t matter if Mrs. Hudson had never danced before in her life; she would still be beautiful. That assumption was proved correct when she met them in the lobby of their hotel that evening, dressed in a blue gown that brought out the color of her eyes. He and Watson practically ran into each other trying to be the first to offer her their arm. His longer legs won him that victory, although Watson beat him to the punch when it came to asking her for the first dance. 

She gave him the second, and then he and Watson had to spend the rest of the evening fending off an increasingly insistent crowd of officers, all of them puffed up like peacocks in their dress uniforms, and all enamored with Mrs. Hudson.

“Is the entire British Army here tonight?” Watson said, annoyed, as a dashing young captain swept Mrs. Hudson into a waltz. 

“They are rather persistent, aren’t they?” he agreed. Perhaps bringing Mrs. Hudson to a resort swimming in eligible bachelors had not been the wisest plan.

But she made sure to give them the last four dances, two apiece.

*

He had really meant to keep his promise. And yet, here he was, clinging to the top of Blackpool Tower, Watson clutching the ledge next to him, while Moriarty and his henchmen tried to abscond with one of the rare white-spotted leopards from the menagerie. The leopard, thankfully still in a cage and not any happier about being 150 metres above the ground than Watson was, made its displeasure known by yowling continuously. 

“You’ll never stop me, Hound!” Moriarty yelled, adding to the din. 

He really had meant to take a complete vacation from solving cases. But when he spotted the three suspicious figures, dressed like two clowns and the ringmaster from the circus and yet clearly not involved with the circus at all, he’d been unable to resist his curiosity. 

The leopard yowled again. Hound made a daring leap into the crow’s nest, and then caught Watson’s hand as he teetered on the edge. Moriarty tried to winch the cage into the balloon basket that hovered above them. The lock on the cage broke. The leopard escaped. Chaos ensued.

Thanks to some quick thinking by Mrs. Hudson, the leopard ended up in one of the lifts, safely corralled until its keeper could come and claim it. Moriarty’s balloon finished the evening deflated and floating in the sea, the professor and his men fleeing into the night as police sirens sounded.

“Well, I certainly can never complain that we lead a dull life,” Mrs. Hudson said as they walked back to the hotel.

“Hello!” Hound stopped. “I do believe that ice cream shop is still open. Shall we have some?” 

"If you're going to begin your evening chasing criminals,” Watson said as they sat down to enjoy their desserts, “a chocolate ice is the way to end it!”

“Quite so!” he and Mrs. Hudson agreed, laughing. 

*

London seemed a bit drab after the bright seaside, but it was also good to be back among the hustle and bustle of the city. Their train had arrived at the station slightly behind schedule, but they would still make it back to Baker Street before six o’clock. Watson was currently supervising the loading of their trunks onto a cab, and Mrs. Hudson was adjusting her hat in the reflection in the station window. Hound examined the passengers hurrying past them.

“Good-bye, dear,” one woman said, giving her husband a kiss on the cheek. “Do have a good trip.”

“I’ll see you in a week,” he replied. “I love you, Adeline.”

“I love you, darling.” She waved as he boarded the train, and then turned away, going back to her carriage.

Hound looked back at Watson and Mrs. Hudson. They never said it, did they? He had never voiced such sentiments to the other two, nor they to him. 

“We’re ready to go, Hound!” Watson called and then helped Mrs. Hudson into the cab.

But then, there was no need to say it, he thought as he climbed in after them. The evidence was plain, there was no shortage of proof, and it was quite the easy deduction to make. 

Lighting his pipe, he settled back in the seat, listening as Watson and Mrs. Hudson discussed what to have for dinner, and keeping one eye on the streets, just in case anyone suspicious should happen along.


End file.
